


But Love Is the Sky and I Am for You

by galfridian



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Post-World War II, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galfridian/pseuds/galfridian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reunited, Liesel and Max rediscover each other, begin new lives in Australia, and as always, tell stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Love Is the Sky and I Am for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurel_crown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurel_crown/gifts).



> Titled from _[as freedom is a breakfastfood]_ by e.e. cummings. Unending gratitude to J + L for your wonderful beta work.

Later, weathered by years and heartbreaks and joys, the Book Thief began her second memoir.

On the third page of this book, Max Vandenburg entered a tailor shop in Molching. Of this moment, Liesel wrote only this: _The sun, which for two years had offered its light but no warmth, opened its arms to me._

 

Inside the little shop – a stone's throw from the site of one of her greatest heartbreaks – Max took Liesel into his arms, and she took him into hers, and a beginning was born.

 

Max lingered for three months. He found a little work here and there, and although it was often humiliating, he refused to take on any of Liesel's work at the shop. "You've given me plenty," he told her, and both their hearts drifted toward Himmel Street, "and it feels good to make my own way."

Liesel smiled, but she couldn't shake the notion that she still had much to give him.

In these days, Max sat with her inside the library at 8 Grande Strasse, or she visited him in the little room he rented above the butcher's. Winter came and poured its bone-deep cold and heavy skies over Molching, so the two shivered by fireplaces, and read books, and shared words.

At Christmas, Max gave her a novel – "now, you can add to Frau Hermann's collection" – and Liesel gave him a little book with lined pages, much like her lost gift from Ilsa.

For three months, they lived much like they had on Himmel Street: a strange, small man and a word shaker cocooned in a private world. But their little world was haunted, the ghosts of Himmel Street crept closer, and Max and Liesel ached from the effort of playing their old roles.

 

In January, Max said, "My family – "

And Liesel said, "Yes?"

"I still haven't looked back."

And so, he gathered his things, and he left her with a promise to return.

 

* * *

  

Max returned as often as he could, and each time, they shed a little of their past selves. A new Liesel – a post-war Liesel – discovered a new Max.

Between visits, they wrote. Letters and stories, sometimes both. However different this Liesel and Max were, that much hadn't changed: they gave each other words and in doing so, they gave a little comfort and a little of themselves.

In February 1948, shortly before Liesel turned nineteen, Max wrote such a letter:

 _I hoped,_ it said, _to return to Molching for your birthday, dear Liesel. But I received word from a friend, of a woman bearing my sister's name boarding a ship to Australia._

_The name is common, I admit, and with my mother's death confirmed, I have little hope. But I must follow that hope wherever it might lead, even if I must cross an ocean._

_I'm sorry,_ he wrote. (He did not write, _I leave the better part of myself with you,_ although he wished he could. And he did not write, _Please, will you come, too,_ although it pained him to close the letter without it.)

 

Liesel received his letter a week after her birthday and promptly climbed the hill to the mayor's house. She kept a little apartment not far from the shop now, but it was ill-lit and more a measure of independence than comfort. It was a poor place to read treasured words, so as she had with each of his letters, she took it to Ilsa Hermann's library.

When she entered, Ilsa was reading the paper; accustomed now to Liesel's unannounced visits, Ilsa didn't pause to greet her.

Liesel knelt by the fireplace, hoping to read that Max would soon return. Instead, she found an address in Australia, given to Max by the man arranging his passage, and no indication of a return journey. But Liesel had learned to find words where they were unspoken – or unwritten – and inside Max's regrets and hopes, she reads: _I find I'm as frightened as I am hopeful_ and _please, will you come, too._ (The latter stole through the lines almost fearfully.)

Sometime later, when Max's letter had been read over and over again, Ilsa said, "Liesel?" Perhaps a hint of hopelessness had found its way to Liesel's eyes and Ilsa recognized it.

"Max has gone to Australia," Liesel replied, "to find his sister."

"Oh," Ilsa said, "well, then."

A week later, she placed travel papers in Liesel's hands. "Be well," Ilsa told her, _I'll miss you unspoken_ but loud.

When Liesel boarded the ship, she said, "I'll miss you, too."

 

* * *

 

"I can't believe – " Max whispered. His arms slipped around her, and Liesel felt his hands tremble as they settled on her waist. "I can't believe you came here alone."

Liesel laughed, drinking in his happiness, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't worry, Max. Friends of the Hermanns made the trip, too, and Frau Hermann secured an apartment for me." Through the Hermanns, Liesel had also met the owner of a nearby tailor shop, who offered her enough work to stretch her meager savings further.

She stepped back to study him, this Max whose skin had been kissed by the Australian sun, a Max whose arms and shoulders had grown strong. He looked healthy, and he certainly looked happier, but there was something in his eyes that heaved a weight on Liesel's heart.

The hostel, Max's temporary home, did not look like much. But then LIesel supposed that to Max – after the dank, dark cold of a Himmel Street basement – it was a great deal. "Come on," he said, hooking her arm around his. "Let me show you a bit of Australia."

On the street, the sun was high, and although the frost would soon settle over Germany, Australia was hot. There had been talk of the heat on her journey – mostly those lamenting its relentlessness, but when Liesel found opportunities to mingle with the handful of Jewish refugees, she learned that they longed for it.

"Max!" A voice behind them called. They paused and turned, and Liesel found a woman with dark hair and eyes waving to them.

For a moment, she thought this might be his sister, Lea, but then Max said, "Sara, how are you?"

"I'm well." Sara smiled, but her smile was for Max, and when she said, "I heard you had a visitor," her eyes did not leave him.

Something hit Liesel's stomach. It felt like a punch and sunk like a stone. "This is Liesel," Max said. Their arms were still linked, but his words seemed to come from far way. It was only the faltering of Sara's smile that drew her back.

"Liesel?" She said. "I imagined you as a little girl!"

Liesel returned her smile – although it pained her, and she hoped that somewhere, Rosa Hubermann was pleased that her lessons on manners sunk in – and replied, "No, I haven't been a little girl for many years."

"My mistake," Sara laughed, then directed her smile at Max. "Cards tonight, Max? I need to salvage a little of my pride."

She spoke to Max as though Liesel were the outsider, as though Liesel didn't belong. And although it had not occurred to Liesel to think of Max belonging to anyone, it struck her now that he must belong to her; certainly, she belonged to him.

"I think I'm spoken for tonight," Max said.

"Some other time, then," Sara said, "Good-bye, Liesel."

When Sara was gone, Liesel turned her face to the sky and set to work burying the stone in her gut and the ache in her chest. "So where shall we go?" Max asked.

Liesel stared down the long and bustling street. Suddenly, she realized the world was opening up for them. She took a moment to drink it in, then said, "Anywhere."

 

That evening, she took him to her apartment. The sunlight was fading, but her apartment, which had large windows and faced west, was bathed in the colors of sunset. She had little furniture, so they sat facing each other on the sun-warmed floors.

"Max," she said, unable to keep her question unasked any longer: "Your sister?"

"A different Lea," he whispered, staring at the place where their knees touched. "They're gone, Liesel, and I'm all that's left."

"No," she said. "There's me. And that – that has to count for something, because you're all that I have."

"Liesel." He took her hands in his. "It's everything."

 

* * *

 

Life in Australia found its rhythm: work in the mornings and most afternoons, followed by dinners together in the evenings. Most often, Liesel visited Max at the hostel, where she met a few of his friends. They taught her card games and how to drink, to Max's dismay.

But Liesel's favorite evenings were spent at her apartment. She placed a sofa near her windows, and by candlelight, they would read or write stories. With the proper tools, Max's drawings improved – "that will only last so long, I'm afraid," he said when Liesel told him – and before long, they had a stack of notebooks filled with their stories.

Sometimes, the stories were like _The Word Shaker_. They held hope and promise, and often, through them, Liesel and Max went on many adventures. But sometimes, they were like _The Standover Man_ , and after the words were written, Liesel could feel the regret in the weight of the notebook.

When Max finally saved enough for his own apartment, he bought a bookshelf, and they placed their notebooks there. "They look like real books," Liesel said, like those she would have found in Ilsa Hermann's library. Liesel relished the sight of their words on a proper shelf.

 

The year wound to its end, and Liesel and Max found themselves at a New Year's Eve party. The gathering – hosted by Efraim, a friendly but sometimes reckless man from Max's hostel – was meant to be small. But soon, it seemed a hundred bodies were crammed into Efraim's apartment, and as the air warmed and thickened, Liesel found the taste of dust in her mouth.

She took a breath, reminded herself that she wasn't buried beneath rubble in Germany. But someone turned up a record player, and the walls shook with the noise of people and music. Liesel glanced around, hoping for a glimpse of feathery hair but finding none.

Instead, she saw someone step through the window onto the fire escape. Fresh air blew in through the window, and Liesel followed it back out into the night.

On the fire escape, she found Markus, an immigrant from Germany who arrived at the hostel shortly before Max. Like Max and far too many of the refugees, Markus was the sole survivor of his family. It forced him, he liked to say, to live each day enough for himself and all of them. He was the first, apart from Max, to accept her into the fold at the hostel, and the first to slip her a sip of whiskey.

Tonight, his usually jovial spirits were nowhere to be found. Seeing her, he gestured toward the crowd inside. "I couldn't – I mean, it wasn't – " he said, then looked away. Together, they stared down at the street below.

"My family died," Liesel said. It was the first she'd spoken of Mama and Papa to anyone but Max in years. "When Munich was bombed. I was asleep in the basement or I would have died, too. Sometimes, it feels like the dust is still in my lungs."

"Some things, we carry with us," Markus whispered, absently rubbing his wrist.

"Some ugly things," Liesel replied, "but some beautiful things, too."

"Yes," Markus said, smiling for the first time. "There is still some beauty left."

Behind them, there was a shuffle, and then Max's voice. "Liesel?" They turned to him, and he frowned, glancing at Markus. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "I just needed air."

He glanced again at Markus. "Should we go?"

"No, it's nearly midnight. Let's stay."

"I think, actually, that I will go home," Markus said. "It's been a long night. If you'll just – " Here, he gestured toward the window, and Max stepped back to allow him into the apartment. Inside, Markus peeked out the window, and with a wink, he bid Liesel good night.

When he was gone, Max joined her on the fire escape. The wind picked up, swirling spiritedly down the street, but the night air was warm. "We'd be freezing now," Max said, "if we were home."

 _We are home, Max,_ Liesel thought.

 

Later, as the crowd inside the apartment began to count down the seconds until midnight, Max said, "Markus called you beautiful." He said it with a poke to her ribs and a grin, but his smile didn't reach his eyes, and Liesel felt a familiar swell in her heart.

"Shut up," she said, but her voice was as weak as his smile.

Inside, the crowd cried, "Three...two...one." Resting her head on Max's shoulder, Liesel closed her eyes and imagined that she kissed him instead.

 

* * *

 

In February, an apartment opened up on the floor below Max's, and Liesel took it. He protested, of course. The neighborhood wasn't the worst in the city, but she was leaving a better one behind. But Liesel was learning to ignore his worrying on occasion, and so she packed her belongings, and on a balmy Saturday morning, Max helped her move.

This apartment had fewer windows, and they were grimey, but Liesel woke in sunlight every morning. Some days, she lingered in bed, imagining Max dressing for the day.

 

By winter, their days found a new routine. Most mornings, they ate together at Liesel's little table – inherited from the previous tenant – and at night, they had dinner on Max's floor. After, wherever they were, they read or wrote.

Although winter in Australia proved less severe than Germany, overall, the nights were just as long. Often, more than one candle was felled as Liesel and Max wrote. Many nights, in fact, slipped away from them as they leaned over one notebook or another. All around Max's apartment, drawings from their stories could be found, and often, their hands were stained with ink.

Some nights, the stories were gentle. They came with little coaxing. Words came tumbling out, and whether the words wounded or healed, there was exhilaration in their birth.

But other nights, the stories were cruel. The words refused to be found, or when they were, the weight of delivering them was too heavy. At times, Liesel and Max fought over the words. "No," he might say, "they can't go that direction."

And Liesel would say, "Yes, they _must._ "

They wrote stories about as many subjects as they could conceive, dreamed up adventures beyond their wildest imaginings, and gave life to protagonists who might sink beneath the sorrows of the world or might climb over them.

But they did not write about love, although Liesel knew Max had fallen in love before the war, and although their friends and neighbors were finding it in each other.

One night – it was raining, Liesel would always remember; a deep and resounding downpour – she paused from her writing and said of their latest protagonists, "I keep imagining that Josef and Hanna find a home in the woods."

"Oh?" Max said. He was bent over a notebook, drawing the woods in question. In the story, the trees were as tall as skyscrapers and went on farther than the eye could see.

"Yes," she said, closing her notebook and placing it between them. "They come upon a clearing with a house in its center. They realize, I think, that although the woods are terrible and dark, this clearing is theirs."

"Theirs? They stay?"

"Of course," Liesel said. "Because soon, Josef and Hanna are as much in love with the house as they are each other."

Max paused, staring hard at his notebook. "Liesel," he said, but if he had more words, they wouldn't come. Gently, Liesel pulled the notebook from his hands and place it beside hers. Her heart was alight with hope. For months, she had fought this, and for months, she had found herself without hope.

But now, she thought perhaps he felt all of what she felt, because when his eyes did meet hers, they were bright. "Liesel," he tried again, reaching for her. She leaned into his touch – leaned into him – as his fingers slipped through her hair and came to rest on her neck.

"I'm here, Max," she whispered.

It seemed to break him. The last bit of distance between them was closed as his mouth found hers. She leaned forward, nearly tipping him backwards, and grasped the collar of his shirt. Pressed against him, she could feel the frantic beat of his heart.

Kissing Max was like writing their stories, like those good nights when they couldn't write the words fast enough. On those nights, she knew deep in her bones that she was meant to be writing, and she felt that certainty in this, too.

When they parted, she saw that he was undone. Opened up for her to see were his fears and doubts – their ages, her German heart and his Jewish one, and the war that had torn at them. But like her, he had hopes, too, and Liesel saw that she was his.

So she kissed him again – and again – and she kept kissing him until he knew with the same bone-deep certainty that they were meant for this.


End file.
